


Vigil

by halloa_what_is_this



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:33:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloa_what_is_this/pseuds/halloa_what_is_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>March 1942.</i> With Britain facing a massive attack, John Watson is recruited to go on a secret mission with the best code-breaker in the country to catch and decipher coded messages from the German army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_28 March, 1942_ **

 

The lighter clicked and a small flame appeared _._ Sherlock Holmes leaned in, making sure to stay as far away as possible from the man offering the light, lit his cigarette and leaned back against his chair. His long coat, heavy and stiff as it was in the March warmth, had been disregarded in the beginning of the interview on top of a lush armchair in the corner with his cigarette lighter hidden in one of its many pockets. His cigarettes, however, he always kept in a silver case in his jacket pocket, and thus only when he took one out did he realise he had nothing to light it with. Cursing himself for having been thrown off his balance by the conductor of the interview, he accepted the offered civility and sat back to exhale the cigarette smoke before giving his answer.

“No.”

His brother sighed.

Mycroft Holmes, sitting at his vast oak desk in his vaster than vast office in the secluded stomach of the Houses of Parliament, would have given anything if he could have avoided this meeting, if only to make his brother hate him less.

“It was not a suggestion, Sherlock.”

He took out a manila folder from a tall pile of identical ones, except this one barely had anything in it. Only a few papers and a photo. Mycroft handed the folder over the table and Sherlock saw his own angry face staring up at him from the photo.

“I have made it all go away.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his brother’s. He bit down on his cigarette, almost cutting it in half with his incisors, the ashes dropping on the creamy carpet without either of the men stopping them.

Pointedly avoiding the ashtray on the table, Sherlock took the cigarette between his fingers and shook off the rest of the loose ashes on the floor.

“And in return,” he began, gritting every word from between his teeth like it physically hurt him to say them, “you would like me to spend an unknown amount of time in the middle of nowhere, looking at _planes_.”

“The war requires it.”

Sherlock snuffed his cigarette against the table where it scorched a dark spot on the varnish and was left there to smoulder slightly.

“This is not my war, Mycroft.”

“It is _everyone’s_ war! I should think you would have gained _some_ amount of national pride after what happened to Vic---“

“Do not say his name,” Sherlock hissed dangerously.

His eyes had gone dark, the slits menacing like a snake’s together with his erratic breathing made Mycroft shudder.

“You have no right to say his name.”

They sat in silence, staring at the remains of Sherlock’s cigarette, smouldering still like it was gasping for breath, then finally burn out on the table. Mycroft started when his brother suddenly reached out and swept it on the floor so that the ashes scattered everywhere, including on his own suit. They both continued to stare as he brushed his jacket clean, straightened his cuffs and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I suppose,” he finally breathed out, “that he is one of the things you helped… disappear.”

“One of many,” Mycroft answered quietly.

Gaining new courage from the handling of the sorest of the topics being over, he crossed his hands on the table and leaned in, adapting an almost conspiratorial tone with his next speech.

“You have a new life ahead of you now. A clean slate. I have made sure that not even I can bring back the evidence of your past life. You are safe now.”

“Which is why you decided to send me to a death trap?” Sherlock sneered before he had the chance to continue.

“Which is why I’m asking you to go and do your duty in securing your country’s future.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t asking but _telling_?”

“Yes, I did,” his brother replied, taking back the folder which had stayed untouched on the table, “but our mother raised me better than to just order my baby brother to do as I want without explaining his options to him.”

“Do I have an option?” Sherlock asked, without a hint of hope in his voice.

“No.”

Another silence followed, during which the position of power seemed to switch naturally between the brothers. Mycroft, having been terrified of inviting Sherlock here to begin with and having flinched at his outburst, now sat up straighter and firmer than before. Sherlock, though having been crouching down sprawled on his chair this whole time, seemed to lose all his remaining confidence and slump down further until he almost disappeared behind the desk.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of Mycroft’s personal secretary who, without further ado, gave him a very perfunctory thumbs up. Mycroft nodded and the secretary exited the room.

“Am I expected?” Sherlock asked, sounding defeated.

“Not quite yet,” Mycroft replied, going back to his stack of folders and fishing out a very thick one with its contents ranging from very old and torn to relatively new, some of them poking out over the sides of the folder. Mycroft smoothed down the front with his fingers and covered it with his palms. He took a moment to think on what he was going to say, then looked up at Sherlock who had been trying to get a peek at the name on the front of the folder.

“My secretary has just ever so discreetly informed me, that your partner for this mission has agreed to the job.”

Sherlock gaped.

“My _partner_? Who?”

 

*

 

“Doctor Watson!”

Arms covered in fresh linen, John Watson was barely able to see the wave of brown curls bobbing towards him and so confirm that the voice calling after him in the deserted hall indeed belonged to Nurse Ford.

Like her four-wheeled namesake, the nurse was fast-paced and efficient, able to do the job of several of her colleagues simultaneously while maintaining the cool and calm reserved only for the very few fortunate these days and thus for none of the inhabitants of the St Bartholomew’s hospital. Loved by everyone, Nurse Ford was the bringer of joyful news, explorer of new possibilities and the coolest hand on the feverish forehead of a patient. Some said that when the war would finally end, she would be the one to broadcast it around and one or two said that if she had been in charge, she would have single-handedly ended the bloody thing before it even had the chance to start.

Also, she was known as a woman who never raised her voice, so it took John by surprise that she would run around in the halls, calling out his name.

“Doctor Watson,” she panted, “there is a man --- goodness, where are you taking those linen? You should let one of the nurses take care of them! --- a man in Doctor Albertson’s office waiting for you --- give them to me, sir --- and wishes to speak to you urgently.”

“A man,” John asked, holding tight to the linen she was trying to pull from his arms.

“Yes, sir. And he says --- hand me the linen now --- he says that it’s to do with national security.”

“Isn’t it always, at the times we are living?” John asked with a smile.

Usually this tone would have been awarded with a dazzling smile from any of the other nurses, even Nurse Ford, but now she glanced behind herself and leaned in to whisper, her voice hurried and far from flirty,

“I saw his credentials when he introduced himself to Doctor Albertson. I was standing next to him - Doctor Albertson that is - helping him with the charts, when the gentleman came in and showed his papers. Oh, he works for the government all right, but not just that. He works for _you-know-what_.”

John swallowed audibly. A childish fear in him raised its head, urging him to drop everything and just run and hide.

Military intelligence interested in him was never a good thing, especially considering his past. No matter what you had been told before, even a small blotch on your record might send the men in sharp suits back to you, asking questions you could never answer right, only to disregard the answers entirely and wheel you off to from where there was no return.

Shaking his head, he told himself to forget such delusions. The onset of paranoia was the first sign that the lies you had told had been good enough to even fool yourself.

He let Nurse Ford take his burden without a fight and hurried past her towards the offices at the front of the building.

He ran through the corridors, skidding to a halt at the door marked with an enamelled plate saying ‘Doctor Philip Albertson, MD.’ He breathed in quietly, willing the tremor in his hand to settle, then patted his hair down before knocking.

“Enter,” called the deep, sonorous voice he knew so well.

Doctor Albertson, a man he admired and respected greatly, sat at his desk, the soft glow of the morning light halloing him from behind. In his softly lit office full of comfortable furniture and a blazing fire, the doctor looked even more of Santa Claus than he usually did surrounded by trainees and nurses in the dazzlingly white hospital rooms, conversing with the patients dressed in crispy white gowns and reclining against starched white linen beddings, all of which made his surroundings look like they were covered in everlasting snow.

The man sitting across the table from Doctor Albertson, however, was the very opposite of the good doctor. His black attire first made John think he had to be a funeral director and that the government agent had been asked to wait in the other room while Doctor Albertson settled the affairs of a recently deceased patient, but then the man stood up and in his pose John read first military, then _danger_.

“Doctor Watson,” Doctor Albertson introduced, “Mr Gareth Hartley.”

Hartley extended his hand, and to John’s astonishment he smiled.

“Sir, I am honoured to meet you.”

This surprised John even further.

“I have read your file and it is a great moment in any officer’s life to meet a true war hero.”

“I am not a hero,” John blushed.

At first, the man’s presence had made him feel like a trapped mouse in front of a gang of hungry alley cats. Now the imminent threat had suddenly transformed into a deep feeling of uneasiness and embarrassment.

He felt like the man was making fun of him.

Luckily, Mr Hartley seemed to be an excellent judge of the situations surrounding him and saw John’s discomfort. Stepping aside, he offered John the chair he had been sitting in and pulled another one for himself.

“Doctor Watson,” he cleared his throat, “a situation has arisen and my employers – ahem – my _employer_ has decided that actions need to be taken in order to prevent certain outcomes this country could certainly live without at this stage of the war.”

He slammed a briefcase on the table and pulled out a manila folder which he handed to John.

“My employer has gone through several records of the finest military individuals currently in the employment of the army, but by a personal recommendation he was directed towards you and having read your file he has agreed that you would be the best man for the job.”

At John’s confused look he gestured at the folder, encouraging him to open it.

In the silence that followed, John felt his cheeks turn hotter and hotter which had nothing to do with the warming fire or that the other two occupants had their eyes directed squarely at him.

After fifteen minutes, he looked up from the papers, meeting the calming blue eyes of Doctor Albertson and the incredibly deep green ones of the man who was offering him a chance to either get himself killed for his country or let him show that he was still capable of protecting it outside the medical ward.

“This,” he coughed, “I assume this is strictly confidential?”

“It is,” Mr Hartley agreed.

“And am I also to assume that measures will be taken if I say no?”

“My employer was assured that you wouldn’t.”

John looked back at the open folder in his lap.

 _This… this is_ something _at least._

“I have already explained the situation in detail to your supervisor, Doctor Watson,” Mr Hartley continued. “He agrees that everything my employer has heard from you is more than true and that he himself could not have thought of a better man for the job.”

John glanced up again to draw strength from Doctor Albertson’s steady gaze.

“As flattered as I am, I am also confused.”

He slammed the folder shut.

“Surely MI6 has to have several other candidates better than me. People who are actually currently on the army payroll.”

Mr Hartley coughed quietly, and suddenly he looked very much like he would like to be anywhere else.

“There are certain… complications that come with the job,” he said. “One of which is the main asset of the operation, something that cannot be overlooked and that requires a very calm and consolidated mind around it.”

John frowned at the choice of words.

“You sound like the mission should be overlooked by a machine.”

Mr Hartley chuckled softly.

“I suppose that would be convenient, taken that the main asset is a sort of machine himself.”

Now both John and Doctor Albertson had their brows furrowed. Doctor Albertson’s bushy eyebrows were stitched together so tightly he looked like a very concerned walrus. In any other situation, John would have found it very funny.

“Him? Your main asset is a person?”

Mr Hartley nodded.

“The most brilliant man I have ever met. And the most difficult one. My employer has ensured the authorities that he is the best man for the job, as our contact has ensured us that you are the best man to yours, that is taking care of _him_.”

John stared.

“I’m… I’m to be a _babysitter_?

It was Doctor Albertson’s turn to cough. John glanced at him, then back to Mr Hartley who was red as a beetroot but desperately trying to regain his composure and stature.

“If you want to be direct about it, yes.”

So much for the dreams of proving himself again, then.

Mr Hartley took off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked very tired all of a sudden.

“Look, Doctor Watson, I have to tell you the truth. We _did_ interview several men ‘still on the army payroll’, but when they heard who they would have to work with, they all… scattered to the winds, so to say. It was like being hung up on several times, without any telephones included.”

He polished his glasses on his immaculate tie before he realised what he was doing.

“So you see, you are, to put it bluntly, our last option,” he said, stuffing his tie back under his jacket. “This man has a reputation in the MI6, not less for being my employer’s younger brother - no, sir, I ensure you nepotism has nothing to do with this,” he said firmly at John’s eyebrows that had almost disappeared under his hairline.

Mr Hartley sighed.

“But you are our best hope as well, not only our last. We only came to you now because we didn’t know of your existence. Obviously, my employer went through army records of those who are still actively involved but when our contact informed us about you, my employer literally threw all the other files on the floor. Believe me, sir, I was there. I saw it.”

John licked his lips.

“This is all very well and flattering, Mr Hartley, but I can’t understand what could be so special about me that would make him jump at the chance of having me.”

Before Mr Hartley had the chance to reply, he continued,

“And please refer to your employer by name. I think I’ve deserved at least that.”

Mr Hartley looked at Doctor Albertson, who took the hint, got up and said,

“Gentlemen, my office is at your disposal. You won’t be disturbed here.”

He went to the door, took his coat from the stand and pulled it on.

“It is time for my rounds anyway.”

With a small bow he said goodbye to them both and exited the room.

His initial source of comfort gone from the room, John thought it best to face his enemy and try and find some other fixed point from the room.

There was no need, however. Mr Hartley looked positively deflated and just stared at Doctor Albertson’s desk.

 _This man is no threat whatsoever_ , John thought.

“Mr Hartley,” he said kindly.

The man started and looked around himself like he did not know where he was. He took off his glasses again and his hands were already going towards his tie when John spoke,

“I would like to hear what my job would include before I give you my answer.”

Surprised, Mr Hartley looked up from his fidgeting.

“You do not want to know who you will be working with?”

John shrugged his shoulders.

“Considering that I haven’t been involved in such affairs for fifteen years, I don’t think the name matters that much. You can give it to me, if you want. I am sure I can read it from the case files in any case.”

Mr Hartley looked for a moment like he did not believe what John was saying. Then he gathered himself, put his glasses back on and suddenly he was again the MI6 agent that had been sent to recruit a retired MO to serve his country once again together with the most insufferable arsehole as well as the most intelligent man he had had the misfortune to meet.

He straightened his posture and took the folder from John.

“The project is called ‘The Maltese Falcon’,” he said and opened the folder.

 

*

 

The meeting was arranged to take place at the Diogenes Club, a place John had never heard of.

“With the strictest confidence,” Mr Hartley had assured him when he had inquired about the safety of the place.

“The security there is even tighter than at the Parliament, and the members are not allowed to talk within the walls of the club. They respect each other’s privacy and what is done for this country behind closed doors,” he had continued as he ushered John into a car and driven to an innocuous looking white-bricked building in the heart of London.

Walking briskly along the halls, John had to run to keep up with him. His eyes kept wandering along the walls, the portraits and memorabilia on them, as well as the several closed doors they passed. To his confusion, every servant walking past them made no noise whatsoever. When he noticed they were all wearing white slippers that covered their whole foot to muffle the sound, he actually stopped to stare and Mr Hartley had to come and collect him for he could not speak out loud to call after him.

Arriving to the right door, he merely left John with a firm handshake and a small smile before turning and walking back to the direction they had come from. Unsure whether he should just go in or wait to be called, John took his chances and knocked.

“Enter!” a voice called from inside, disturbing the peace of the hall.

John jumped slightly. He had already gotten used to the silence around him and the sudden loudness made him feel uneasy. But not as much as the tone of the voice. Other than being demanding, as if the speaker was used to being the one in command, it lacked all emotion.

It was like ice.

He pressed the handle down carefully, pushing against the wood with his hand to stop any sound, and pulled the door open.

By the large fireplace which took almost the entirety of the wall on the right side of the door, two people stood, ramrod straight, staring at him.

At first John did not realise there were two of them. They were both tall, both immaculately dressed, both stern as statues, but from the two of them the one on the right, even with his two-piece suit and polished shoes, looked like he did not belong there. He had a commanding air around him, and for a moment John wondered whether he had been the one whose voice had invited him in, but then his eyes caught the other man standing next to him and knew that this was Mycroft Holmes. His demeanour, his suit and his hair slicked back had hidden him among the expensive furniture so well he had looked like a natural part of it.

The man next to him ( _has to be his brother_ ) stared at John standing in the doorway, squinting his eyes momentarily while he looked him up and down. Not a muscle moved in his body. He was still standing as stiff as before.

Suddenly John realised why he looked like he did not fit in the room. It was not the wild mess of curls that stuck up everywhere and fell over his forehead. Even with his hair slicked back like his brother’s, he would still have been an unfitting addition to the premises.

 _He hates it here_ , John realised.

Somehow, this mutual feeling of being uninvited to this place did not make John feel closer to the man.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft Holmes’ voice boomed from across the room, startling him again. “Please close the door.”

Blushing, John hurried to pull it shut before turning around again to face the men. Mycroft Holmes had moved to sit behind his desk, but the other Holmes – _Sherlock_ – was still standing by the fireplace, now leaning against it leisurely, his eyes the exact opposite of his brother’s cold and blue stare which, like his voice, was like an icicle.

They were boring straight into him, red and hot like fire.

“You’ve been to war before.”

At first, John did not realise he had spoken. So intense was his stare that he had been enraptured by it, unable to move or register anything but the burning globes in front of him. And the voice was so deep and velvety, John could not believe a human being had produced it.

“Yes,” he whispered hurriedly.

Then he gathered himself, shaking off the effects of the intense stare.

“But being a soldier it would be very unusual if I had not.”

The gaze from across the room did not whither.

“But you are not just a soldier,” the voice continued. “You are a doctor, so not just some nameless footman trained to endure the frontline of the battle. But the reason for you being here instead of on the battlefield or in some hospital helping the needy indicates that you _have_ seen battle, that you _have_ been on the front line, or at least somewhere in action, and that you _have_ been wounded and sent home, unable to serve anymore.”

John froze at this. Suddenly what he felt (other than growing interest towards the man), instead of embarrassment and uneasiness for being somewhere he clearly did not belong, was anger.

“Well done, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “Your brother has obviously prepped you well on who is to accompany you on this mission.”

Sherlock Holmes’ mouth spread into a wicked grin.

“On the contrary, Doctor Watson,” he purred. “My brother insisted that no information other than your name would be given before you entered the room.”

He turned to look at his brother, whose hands were crossed over his abdomen, inspecting the situation as if he was bored to be in the middle of it.

“A way of ensuring my interest would be held until the grand finale, I expect.”

Mr Holmes sighed and placed his enfolded hands on top of his desk.

“As you now have suffered through one of my brother’s delightful deductions, Doctor Watson, I believe the Rubicon has been crossed and you can either continue towards the point of no return or turn around and close the door behind yourself.”

John kept his eyes on him, even though from the corner of his eye he could see that Sherlock Holmes whipped his head around to see what his next action would be. To his surprise, John did not hate him. He was annoying for sure, but he could live with that. He had lived through a war with several of the worst people he had ever met among the soldiers in his troop. He could survive just one, even if he would turn out to be worse than all of them put together.

He walked to the desk, making sure not to even glance towards the fireplace, and sat down in one of the chairs facing the older Holmes, who at the moment looked both mildly surprised as well as ecstatic by his actions. His brother, when he joined them to sit by John’s right after a moment’s silence, looked only immensely irritated and sat like a petulant child with his arms crossed over his chest, slouching in his chair with his gangly legs spread out in front of him.

“Gentlemen,” Mr Holmes said, handing them both a piece of paper, “welcome to Operation _Maltese Falcon_.”

A derisive snort from John’s right followed the announcement, but he paid it no mind. But when offered a pen, his brother had signed the paper with a swift flick of his wrist before John even had had the change to reach for it.

Eyeing the papers, Mycroft Holmes tapped his foot on the floor three times, smacked his lips and began to speak.

“First of all, you must know that we could not reveal all the details before you had signed the contracts. Obviously, even if you hadn’t and would have exposed the operation, the consequences would have been unpleasant for you but this way if you give out any information about this mission, you will be publicly shunned and measures will be taken for your imprisonment.”

To John’s surprise, his eyes stayed longer on his brother than they did on him.

“We are expecting an attack from Germany soon,” he continued. “A major one. They will try and infiltrate the weakest part of the country. We have received messages...”

“That no one has been able to decipher before me and which reveal that there is an imminent threat,” his brother said. “This is not news to me, Mycroft.”

“But they are to Doctor Watson,” Mycroft Holmes continued without minding the interruption.

“Why does he need to know? He will only be there to make sure I won’t fall into _bad habits_ and let my work slip. He is just an errand boy.”

The anger raised its head in John’s chest again and he clenched his fists against his knees.

Mycroft Holmes turned towards him and, not minding his brother, continued to explain,

“We have information of a massive scale threat. The messages were decoded by my dear brother here, and their originality cannot be doubted. The threat is real.”

John straightened his posture.

This was his territory. He knew how to act.

“When did you receive the messages?”

“Two days ago. You must understand, that though the situation is dire, certain factors,” here he turned to give his brother such an ugly stare that John could have sworn the man flinched slightly under it, “slowed us down and we were not able to move as swiftly as we would have liked. But now that you are here, we can act. You will leave for your mission tonight, as soon as necessary equipment have been ensured.”

“Tonight?” John asked, incredulous.

_We don’t even know what the mission is!_

Well, at least he did not.

He turned to the man sitting next to him to see whether he knew any more than he did.

“I have explained some things to my brother before your arrival, Doctor,” Mr Holmes said, somehow apologetic. “This attack, this very _secret_ attack from the enemy is of such a scale that we have to be ready to act as fast as possible. But we have to act in secret. This is our one trump card with them. When the attack comes and we stop it on its tracks, the _Führer_ will see that we will not be surprised, we will not be taken lightly and most of all we will not surrender.”

With each sentence, he thumped his fist down on his desk.

“You are not in parliament making one of your speeches, Mycroft,” his brother said coolly.

John glanced at him. Since Mr Holmes’ speech had had no impact on his brother, it had clearly been meant for him.

“Why not just build an actual surveillance tower and have an actual team work there?” the younger Holmes continued.

“Element of surprise. The code they have been using is something no one has been able to break before. We are one step ahead them.”

“Why can’t I do it here? Why do I have to go in the middle of nowhere?”

“You need to be in place to inform us the moment the attack comes. An old-fashioned guard crew is always the best. You will intercept the messages, decode them and send them back to us and when the attack finally comes, you will be ready to inform us and _we_ will be ready to fight.”

“What do your friends in the government think about sending the best code-breaker in the country to do his job with minimum equipment and, once again, in the middle of bloody nowhere?”

“They agree with me completely. You work best alone, you work best in _silence_ , and without you in it, Bletchley Park will still be standing when the war is over.”

His brother sneered at this, but continued his onslaught of questions without stopping for breath.

“What makes you so sure _we_ won’t be blown to bits?”

“They will not know you’re there. Their aim is to get as many civilian victims as possible, but you will inform us of the attack from a secure location they know to be deserted before they get to inhabited areas.”

“So your plan is to let us sit there for God knows how long, listening to messages that may or may not come, and look out for planes.”

John felt like he had been following a very fast-paced tennis match. His head swam with all the information. With each delivered retort, the brothers had seemed to become more ready to fly to each other’s throats though neither had moved an inch.

“This is not news to you, Sherlock,” Mr Holmes pointed out.

His brother snorted.

“I just like Doctor Watson to hear how idiotic you are.”

“Doctor Watson has been to war before. He understands the measures that need to be taken.”

John coughed, and both Holmeses turned to stare at him.

“To be quite honest, sir, this mission does seem a bit vague.”

Sherlock Holmes snorted out a laugh.

“I mean,” John continued, his voice stammering slightly at Mr Holmes’ intense glare, “with all due respect, sir, your brother is right. I can’t imagine how anything we are able to do alone in an unknown location couldn’t be done more efficiently here.”

“The plan is not for you to win this war alone,” Mr Holmes interrupted him. “It is to move adequate amount of resources to where they can’t be afforded to be missing at the moment, even with the minimal ones we _can_ afford to spare. The fact that our best code-breaker is coming along is only due to the current impregnability of the code, but the moment it is deciphered fully, we will be ready and they will not. If Sherlock were to stay here and the code had in fact been a scam and no attack was coming, all would be well. But if we have been scammed and an attack is to take place somewhere else, the consequences could be devastating. We need to have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Bay of Biscay has been occupied for two years,” John insisted. “Surely the defences must be secure enough that an imminent invasion can be prevented? Why, the whole coast cannot still be defended only by emergency defence batteries?”

Mr Holmes sighed deep and buried his head in his hands.

“He is not stupid, Mycroft.”

John turned once again to look at the younger Holmes.

The old smirk was back, lit up this time by genuine joy, but also a kind of devilish enjoyment.

“Tell him why we have to go. Surely the man deserves it if he is to go to his death.”

This made Mr Holmes raise his head.

“You are _not_ going to your death, Doctor Watson,” he ensured John.

The he sighed again and dropped his hands in sign of surrender.

“As we are speaking, our troops are launching a raid on the Nazi occupied French port, St Nazaire. If successful, this raid will ensure that at least part of the coastline will be taken back, which will mean trouble for the Germans. They will have no means of repairing their larger warships there, but will have to send them back. This kind of setback won’t be taken lightly, and more than likely measures will be taken to repair for the losses made, quite possibly by attempting to occupy the British coast.”

With each word, he sounded more defeated, though he was trying to hide his tone behind his posture, keeping his countenance neutral. But his eyes were once again downcast, glued to a spot on his desk.

“The Germans don’t yet know that we have been able to decipher part of their code. They are only using a new one because Sherlock managed to crack their old one – with the help of a few colleagues – and when he cracks this one, and he will do so, we will use it to find out everything we can about their current plans before they realise their precious renewed code is not as secure as they thought and their plans have been infiltrated.”

John did not need to look to his right to see the expression on Sherlock Holmes’ face.

“So, in short,” he said, voice suddenly icy, “I am the muscle and he is the mind and together we _are_ the emergency defence battery? The two of us?”

“The situation is not optimal,” Mr Holmes said raising his eyes again, “but we have no other way of protecting that part of the island without moving resources away from significant areas of defence or without giving out our knowledge of their plan. We have to form a strategy but we also have to be quick. It’s like chess.”

“You’re terrible at chess. You’ve never won a game in your life,” his brother snorted again.

John felt like he was on a family dinner where two of the participants had just had a massive row and were still letting out steam. He was reminded of their family dinners, his father and sister going at each other about football, literature, music, while he himself and his mother sat in their places trying to stifle their laughter.

He giggled when he remembered how every week after dinner his father and Harriet had sat down in the sitting room to listen to the game, jumping up and embracing each other with tears in their eyes every time their team had made a goal.

The room fell silent around him. Both brothers stared at him, the younger one looking delighted once again while the elder began to look more and more like he was sure his mission was going to fail and thinking whether it would be too late to find anyone else for the task.

“Sorry,” John hurried to say.

“You will do it, Doctor Watson?”

John was surprised by the phrasing. It was not a question though he could hear the intonation of one at the end as a sign of a question mark.

He really was Mr Holmes’ last hope.

“Yes,” he replied.

Mr Holmes sighed in relief (his brother next to him in annoyance) and handed them both another pieces of paper.

“Here are your lists of supplies,” he informed them. “You will purchase them yourselves – money will be provided,” he said to John when he looked up, concerned, “and you must ensure yourself that your equipment is packed and with you when you leave London. No one will be there to help you after the officers who are to drive you and the supplies have left you on location. You will only radio us in case of emergencies, which include medical emergencies, new information or when the attack happens.”

 _Fat lot of good this is_ , John thought to himself. By looking at the list, they could be going to Antarctica for all he knew.

Sherlock’s thoughts seemed to have been travelling the same routes as he browsed the extensive list, for he turned to his brother and asked,

“You are obviously prepared for the mission to take a long time.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“But we will be staying in England?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Cornwall.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_29 March, 1942_ **

The car was awful. The road was awful. The weather was awful. The whole bloody West Country was awful!

Sherlock tried to wrap himself up warmer inside his coat, hiding his neck and mouth behind his scarf and his hands in his armpits. Another bump on the road shook the car, and he groaned out loud. Something soft landed in his lap, and he peered at the other passengers.

Between him and the uniformed sergeant driving the car ( _unimportant, just one of Mycroft’s lackeys_ ) John Watson sat like travelling on a deserted country road in the middle of the night in a military van packed full of radio equipment, food, medical supplies and guns with another one following close behind was something he did every day.

Probably was. Or had been.

Sherlock looked in his lap to see what Watson had thrown at him. He could barely make out the furry trimming and ridiculous flaps, but he knew it was Watson’s hat, similar to the one he himself had packed in his trunk with the rest of his clothes, certain that he would not need it during the drive.

The hat that should be warming Watson’s head.

Sherlock turned his lip up and glared at the seat next to him.

“Either wear it, or freeze your ears off,” Watson said in the dark.

Grumbling, his ears burning from the cold, Sherlock pulled the hat on. It was already warm from having been worn for so long and smelt strongly of Watson.

Sherlock sniffed. It was ridiculous that the man had held onto his winter gear. Idiotic sentiment for an institution that clearly cared nothing about him anymore. Mycroft had been very pleased, for Watson’s sentiment helped with the tight schedule they were on. Buying clothes for Sherlock was a nightmare, unless they were shopping for well-tailored trousers and expensive suit jackets from Savile Row. Having the other half of the operation already ready and in working order lighted up a childish petulance in Sherlock akin to fear of being left behind. So, he agreed to similar gear bought in a bulk just to have the business over and done with.

The moon appearing from behind a cloud was a welcome sight, and he could see Watson more clearly now, sitting next to him, his golden hair gleaming in the faint moonlight. He was sitting ramrod straight, holding on to the bonnet to keep himself from swaying and falling against the sergeant, but there were no signs of discomfort in him. He looked like he was exactly where he belonged and knew precisely where they were going.

Sherlock sniffed again and turned around to peer at his radio equipment.

He could not see them because of the tarpaulin covering the back of the car, but knowing that things so valuable to his work were packed back there with the rest made him uneasy. Anything could fall on them or crush them, and then he would be without any means of contacting the base or from detecting enemy planes. Which, to be quite honest, was not such a bad idea. Mycroft had seen right through him and warned him that if he dared so much as go near the equipment with anything sharp, metallic or something that spit fire, he would ensure that Sherlock would spend the rest of the war in Wales. But if the equipment were to be damaged by accident…

Another bump shook the car and Sherlock jerked upright.

He must have fallen asleep, for the dawn was beginning to colour the horizon, painting the sky in gold and pink. He stretched as best as he could, glancing at the two sitting next to him. The sergeant driving the car looked quite peaked, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, his posture a shadow of his usual military stance.

But Watson looked as alert and awake as before, still sitting straight, still holding on to the bonnet so as not to be thrown on the floor with the bumps. Now, in the golden morning light Sherlock could see that he was not in fact relaxed, like all of this was just routine to him, but like all his senses were stretched to their utmost.

 _Is he afraid we will be attacked?_   he wondered. _Here? In the middle of nowhere at five in the morning?_

Sherlock yawned luxuriously. Watson had clearly not slept, and the sergeant seemed to be falling asleep on the spot. After seven hours of driving in the dark and the rain, sleeping with his head drooping against his chin, even Sherlock felt like he could use a proper bed. The sight of the sea peeking over the horizon was more than inviting.

However, it took over an hour and a half more to find the small path leading to the cabin and they had to slow their speed down to a minimum in order to keep the cars steady on the road. Finally, when the sergeant stopped the car in front of a small fishing hut and Sherlock jumped out of his seat, his legs almost gave out and he staggered forward helplessly. A pair of firm arms grabbed him around the waist.

John stood behind him, clearly more at ease now that they had arrived, feet firmly set apart to support himself on the rocky yard.

“All right?”

Sherlock nodded and stepped forward to free himself from the grasp. John turned around to help the sergeant unload the car. The private, who had followed with the rest of the supplies, jumped out of his car and began to unpack with speed that was clearly meant only to impress his superior. Sherlock, who had been given charge of the keys, went to the hut and opened the door.

Musty smell of wet wood and dust welcomed him in. He was surprised at how small the cabin actually was. It had not looked like a palace from outside either, but inside it looked even smaller.

There was only one room that formed both the bedroom and the kitchenette. In the middle of everything were two tables. One larger, obviously meant for his radio equipment, and a smaller one, merely big enough to fit two people and their meals.

A door in the corner led to the tiniest bathroom he had ever seen, containing only a basin and a carafe, a towel rack and a faucet in the wall.

Sherlock returned to the front room, sliding his finger over one of the tables.

 _Clearly Mycroft has not been here to clean_ , he thought.

He stopped by the bed, dust covering it as well, but rather than worrying about the effort of having to air it he thought of the more obvious problem. He strode to the open door and poked his head out.

“There is only one bed,” he informed John, who glanced up, his brows furrowed but not looking too worried.

“How big is it?”

“Single. Will barely fit one of us.”

Now his expression changed, and he turned to the sergeant.

“Mr Holmes said there would be an extra mattress ready for you,” he said, lifting a box of tin cans and carrying them inside.

John followed him in with another box of cans in his arms, Sherlock with his own trunk of clothes.

A thorough search revealed a mattress, an extra pillow and two blankets.

“Did you bring your sleeping bag?” John asked Sherlock who was looking at the dusty bedding with distaste.

“Yes, I did!” he snarled. “I was able to read the list just as well as you were!”

John raised his hands apologetically and took the bedding from Sherlock. He stepped out, and Sherlock could hear him shaking the blanket forcefully. Tiny particles of dust flew in the sunlight and settled over John when he walked back in, without the bedding.

“We’ll just leave them outside to air.”

He looked down at the mattress.

“Probably best to do the same with that. You have asthma?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Allergies?”

“I smoke. I will be fine with a slightly dusty mattress.”

“Not so slightly, it would seem,” John said and glanced at the bed. “But looks like it’s your only option. You will not fit in that so I’m afraid it’s you who will be sleeping on the floor.”

Sherlock grimaced. The mattress was firm enough, he was not worried about sore muscles or aching back, but it would get cold in the winter. It was already March and the heatwave would hit them soon enough. But come October, he would have to drag his mattress as close to the fireplace as he could.

Just then the sergeant came back in, saying he and the private were ready to leave and asked whether they had anything they wanted him to report back to London. Sherlock turned his back, but John followed the sergeant outside, leaving the door open. Sherlock could hear them conversing, but the voices were too quiet to make out what they were saying.

After a few minutes he heard the engine start, the ground rustle under the wheels and the car drive away. The van the private had driven was to remain with them, in case they had to get out fast. They would have to hide it soon.

John walked back in a moment later, his wallet in his hands, his eyes cast down to stare at his fingers fidget on the leather surface. He looked up to see Sherlock push one of the tables under the window, the feet scraping horribly on the floor, and begin to unpack and arrange his radio equipment on it, the kitchen table still full of boxes and crates with their food supplies in them.

John sighed quietly, placed his wallet next to his bag on the bed and went to open the first box with canned peas and bully beef in it.

 

They were alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**_30 March, 1942_ **

****

Sherlock woke with a sneeze, another, a third. He lifted his head, fourth sneeze shaking his body so that the mattress slid a few inches across the floor. He pinched his nose, trying not to breathe in any more of the dust that was settling back down on the bedding after having been thoroughly shaken by his nightly tossing and turning, coughing and sneezing, and now more of the latter as he sat up.

He felt horrible.

He had barely slept due to his own sneezing and the wheezing cough from Watson’s side of the room. The constant creaking of the bed boards had told him that Watson had been tossing and turning as well, moaning and gasping occasionally before going completely still.

_Had he had nightmares?_

In the middle of the night, attempting to keep a hold of the fragile edges of disturbed sleep, he had not spared much thought on Watson’s assumed bad ones, but now, at the early hours of morning when nothing else in the cottage was interesting enough to get his attention, his companion seemed slightly more interesting.

It was too early to make assumptions, but regularly occurring nightmares could indicate a trauma and a _soldier’s_ nightmares meant trauma on the battlefield.

If Watson still dreamt about the horrors of the war, it was a mystery as to why he had chosen to continue to keep close to it by working as a doctor in a military hospital. There was also the military gear he had clearly kept for sentimental reasons as well as his easiness with firearms.

Last night, Watson had taken out his guns after dinner, cleaned and oiled them at the kitchen table while Sherlock tuned his radio equipment. Inspecting his actions, Sherlock had seen loving caresses instead of angry jabs with each swipe of cloth over metal. Watson had clearly itched to take one of the small handguns outdoors and give it a go, such reluctance had he shown when he had placed it back into its case and hung it on the wall.

He could not practice too often. They were miles away from any population, even the lonely sheep herders did not come here. But making a lot of noise, especially firing a gun, without checking their surroundings was idiotic. No matter what Mycroft said, Germany was still too far away for their practicing to be heard and even occupied France was some distance away. And still his dear brother had deemed silence paramount.

The quietness of it all was what pulled him out of his thoughts. The complete lack of noises was the opposite of Baker Street where he had his flat. He had never been this far away from London, never this far away from other human beings and wondered how long he could take of the sea, the birds and the quiet humming of the forest before he went insane.

He had stood outside last night on his way to the privy. The wind rustling through the leaves, making the trees creak and moan had felt eerie and foreign to him. He wondered how Watson saw them, whether they were a comfort or an annoyance to him.

Looking around, he noticed Watson’s bed was empty, the bedding folded neatly under the mattress, the pillow on top in a perfect 90-degree angle. Watson’s clothes from yesterday, which had been folded and arranged on a stool by the foot of his bed, had disappeared. Most likely he had gone out. Sherlock tried to search for his shoes, but remembered he had left them outside before going to bed.

But his coat was gone.

Watson had hanged it on a nail on the door next to Sherlock’s and now the other nail was empty.

So Watson was out and Sherlock had the hut to himself for the moment.

He stretched luxuriously, his long legs poking out under the duvet, stood up and, without bothering with his own shoes or socks, walked to the curtain that hid the washstand and pulled it aside.

John looked at him over his shoulder, face covered with shaving cream, a towel thrown over his right shoulder, the left one and his chest bare all the way to his waist.

There was an explosion of scar tissue covering the back of his shoulder, exposed for anyone to see.

No one there to see it but Sherlock.

He swallowed audibly.

John turned around slightly so that Sherlock saw his chest, the bullet wound only a small dot on this side, merely a scar to mention except the obvious blotch of an entry wound that had swallowed the bullet neatly.

“Morning,” he heard John, his voice very far away.

He looked up to see him smiling at him, his voice void of all embarrassment or need for privacy.

“Did you need to use the faucet?”

Trying to keep his eyes on John’s face, Sherlock shook his head violently, feeling the red hot embarrassment spread across his chest and face. He was glad of the polo neck jumper covering his body, the night air having been so cold he had had to sleep in the thick jumper as well as a pair of flannel pyjamas.

He looked down again, only to see the blare of the scar on John’s shoulder stare back at him.

“Your coat,” he stammered. “I thought you had gone out.”

“I put it out. It smelt of gasoline and the road.”

He turned back around to scratch at his beard, showing the star of the exit wound and every well-defined line of his back again.

“Let me just get this part so I don’t drop everywhere. Then you can have the bowl and water.”

“No, I... I don’t need them.”

He ran outside, forgetting his shoes next to his mattress and stumbled over John’s that were placed right outside the door. The cold morning air felt icy on his flushed skin, and he shivered in his pyjama trousers. The wind from the sea rustled his curls, attempting to sweep away the images of sculpted muscles and skin clear and smooth, puckered and red.

The steps creaked.

“Don’t take it too seriously,” Victor said, sitting down next to him. “You’re only human after all.”

“Shut up.”

Victor turned his face towards the sun and closed his eyes.

“I like it here,” he said. “Quiet. It’s always so noisy inside your head. Now it seems like you might have found something to quieten it.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his forehead against his knees.

His head ached.

The steps creaked again. Victor stood up to make room for John who sat down in the free space with two mugs of steaming coffee. He nudged one of the mugs against Sherlock who looked up, surprised at the sudden warmth.

“Sorry you had to see that,” John said. “I forget the scar is even there. I promise to wear a shirt from now on.”

“It’s not that,” Sherlock muttered, inhaling the steam from his mug.

He was not this easily affected. He could endure physical and emotional torture. He didn’t have feelings. Everyone said so. He should not, would not, act like this – _be_ like this – every time this man decided to trigger a surge of desire inside him.

He rubbed his temple. The headache was gathering speed, clustering at the back of his neck.

John could see it, of course he could. He was a doctor and a soldier, he was used to identifying pain.

Sherlock heard the soft _thunk_ of a mug being placed on the ground.

“You want something for that?”

Sherlock shook his head. The coffee helped. The comforting smell of it allowed him to pretend that nothing was amiss with the world. He was one again the cold-hearted thinking machine Mycroft said he was, unaffected by emotions and desires unlike other people.

He peeked at John through the steam. The mug was back in his hands, warming them in the cool sea breeze. He was dressed in his trousers and a warm long-sleeved shirt. He had a gun securely holstered over his hip.

Sherlock brushed his fingers over it. An Enfield No. 2 Mk I, .38/200 calibre. A fine gun, standard for military personnel. A much better one than its replacements issued due to the shortage.

Of course Mycroft would have insisted his protector wear only the best of firearms. The other handguns were also Enfields.

John pulled the gun out from its holster and held it out to him. Sherlock took it, the metal heavy on his palm, clean and cold like a dead thing.

“Do you shoot?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“At all?”

“I can hit a target if I want to,” Sherlock said, handing the gun back, holding it far from himself like it was something filthy. “I just prefer to catch my bad guys while they are still alive, so never had any reason to learn anything but self-defence.”

He felt slightly better with the gun safely back in the holster. He took another sip from his cup, the coffee still hot without any milk in it to cool it down.

“I didn’t know how you take it, so I just thought something warm would be enough for now and we can dig into the sole carton of milk we have later,” John said apologetically.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and downed another large gulp.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” John said sipping from his mug. “There is enough of the real stuff, but sooner or later we’ll have to start managing with the substitute.”

Sherlock drained his mug and held it out for John to take, silently asking for more.

John huffed, but got up and went in to fill both mugs. When he came out again, he sat slightly closer to Sherlock.

“What did you use to do, then? Before the war, I mean.”

“I was a consulting detective for the New Scotland Yard.”

He dreaded the day they had to start drinking Postum or some other horrendous mixture, and only because his brother had deemed other supplies more important than a decent quantity of quality coffee.

As John sipped from his cup, his shirt stretched tight over his shoulders. Sherlock thought of the scar hidden so well under layers of clothing.

_Who did that to you?_

“Why do you think he named you Raven?” John asked suddenly.

“He’s jealous of my hair. He's obsessed with it because he tries very hard to hide the fact that he is going bald.”

John snorted his coffee through his nose, laughing into his palm. Despite himself, Sherlock smiled as well.

“I would have thought it was because you look like you like Poe. All moody and pale and lots of wild hair.”

Sherlock huffed angrily.

“You think you know me already?”

“Not at all,” John said amiably, sipping from his mug. “Just making conversation.”

Sherlock squinted at him in the growing light. He heard Victor chuckle quietly behind them.

John only continued to drink his coffee, clearly not expecting Sherlock to reply. He was not mocking him. It was just his way of breaking the ice.

“I do like Poe,” Sherlock heard himself say.

John looked at him, surprised.

“But I hate _The Raven_.”

John smiled, and as he did his mouth seemed to stretch across his face and make it glow.

“Did you tell anyone? Where you were going.”

Judging by the way John turned back to his mug, Sherlock had chosen his question poorly.

“My signature ensured that I wouldn’t,” he answered eventually.

“I know, but did you? You must have told someone. I see that you did. A friend. A fellow officer, perhaps.”

Standing up, John drained his mug.

“Had no one to tell.”

He turned around and walked inside. Sherlock heard him set his mug in the sink and begin to rummage around in the cupboards.

Behind him, leaning against the wall of the hut, staring out to the sea, Victor began to hum quietly under his breath. His eyes were bright and distant, like two moons.

 

*

 

After breakfast, while Sherlock continued to fiddle with his radio equipment, John sat down at the kitchen table, covered it with old newspapers he had found at the back of a closet and took out his polishing kit again. Kneeling by his bed, he slid out an old wooden case and took out a hunting rifle. The smell of gun oil and the tinge of gunpowder were not familiar smells, but Sherlock felt drawn towards them, suddenly intrigued by the process that made the killing machines he usually despised efficient in their job as well as with the man who went about his task efficiently but performed it with great care, checking and polishing each part with tender fingers.

Something of the soldier in John came out when he handled a gun, but it stayed hidden as well, lying lurking under his civilian clothing and his slagging posture, indicating that this was a job he enjoyed and performed only to make sure that in any eventuality he would be ready.

The only reason he was cleaning them again was due to something Sherlock had irked in him with his question, something that made him want to prove his worth.

“How many of those do we have?”

Sherlock picked up the bottle of gun oil.

“Rifles?”

“Firearms.”

John gave the barrel a final swipe.

“Eight. Two of each and an extra handgun.”

He blew into the muzzle. It let out a hollow, humming sound.

“And how many of the Axis soldier are you planning to kill with them?”

Sherlock had come to stand behind him, hovering over his shoulder as he put the rifle back together.

“As long as I keep all of them out of your hair, I consider my job done.”

He looked up at Sherlock, eyes warm, mouth firm, just a hint of smile playing in the right corner.

Sherlock felt curiosity tugging at the back of his head. He wanted to rummage through John’s bag, his wallet, see if he had anything hidden away. A journal maybe.

Eyes moving across the table, he accepted the rifle John offered to him. The heaviness of it felt sturdy in his hands, but did nothing to comfort him.

“You didn’t count the other handgun,” he said, nodding towards the Enfield still securely in its holster resting against John’s hip.

John’s posture stiffened and his hand moved closer towards the gun.

“It’s not included in the armoury,” he said, attempting levity. When he noticed Sherlock was staring at his hand, he moved it quickly to rest on the table close to one of the guns he had already dismantled and cleaned before picking it up again and starting over.

Sherlock’s curiosity raised its head again. If John had not sat there, he would have ran to his bed and searched until he found something.

It was not the soldier in John, this sudden change in his mood. It was something more savage, more personal, not something a reasonable serving member of king and country would take to the battlefield.

Pondering John's clearly unconscious move, he turned around and pointed the rifle at the wall.

 

*

 

John wanted him to go out with him. To walk in the woods, he said, to get to know the surroundings.

The beach that opened by their front door was only a tiny stretch of rocks, but behind the cottage the forest loomed vast and full of unnerving sounds, like the presence of something that was constantly looking at them.

Sherlock hated the feeling of having invisible eyes on him. He had felt it last night, lying awake in his bed. As if hundreds upon hundreds of people had lined up under his window to peek in.

He hated being watched. He hated being the centre of attention. He hated the small sounds the forest was full of, sounds like whispers that did not stop when he turned to look but only seemed to move closer with every step he took.

So John went alone, promising not to go far and reminding him that he should know the surroundings as well. It could prove useful, Mycroft had said.

He was gone a quarter of an hour. Sherlock rummaged through his bag, the books by his bed, the linen and the mattress. Nothing. Not even a redacted letter from a family member or a loved one from the home front. On the second try on the bag, he found a journal full of complex shorthand hidden in the lining of the side pocket.

So John didn’t trust anyone.

The next day John went back to the forest, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, unsure how to continue his search.

There was nothing to look for. Everything but the journal was out in the open, everything John owned either rested on the table or was in a pile next to his bed. He had not hanged photos on the walls, nor did he have any in his wallet. During the two days they had spent together, he had not told a single funny anecdote about a family member or his comrades in the army.

Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he should not be surprised. After all, he himself had not done any of this either, but then again, that’s what _normal_ people did. They shared. And Sherlock was not normal.

Mycroft had indeed chosen his companion well.

He watched from the window as John’s figure appeared from the thin spring mist gathering among the trees. The steady noise from the radio lulled him into a trance, allowed him to sink into the moment, to relax into watching John come out from the shadows, stomp his boots as he went, a rifle slung over his shoulder, the Enfield against his hip.

Sherlock wondered what would happen if he snatched it while John did not notice. He took it everywhere he went. It would be a challenge.

He watched John stop at the edge of the wood, stretch his neck to the side and listen to a bird that had begun to sing in the distance. A big one, a stork maybe, and not far away. He watched as John stood motionless in the moss, his senses stretched to their utmost, listening to the bird sing and yet completely aware of everything happening around him.

The only possibility would be to take the gun while he slept, which in turn would be a useful experiment in how deep John’s slumber was. It would be interesting to see whether John gave himself enough time to recognise him or shoot him standing.

Either way, it was a means to break the boredom should it come to that.

Behind him, Victor lifted his hair away from his neck and huffed a breath of cold air softly against the skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Did a thesis. And am now a Master of Arts. But since last September my brain has been focused only on translating gendered pronouns and other such things which, while very interesting, have taken me away from other writing. And after graduation the stress of job-hunting and money and such shit have occupied my head. Let us hope that now that I am free from my thesis (though still don't have a job or money and am very stressed out about that) writing the next chapter won't take me almost a year.


End file.
